School of Secrets
by wsherlocksholmes
Summary: AU Sherlock. Johnlock. John is a football/soccer player attending an American University where he meets the unusual Doctor Sherlock Holmes, a teacher only a few years older than him.
1. Chapter 1

It was only the first day of classes, and John Watson was already late. He had thought (incorrectly) that he could slip in a fast shower between morning football (or soccer as they called it here) and his first class, Biology. By the time he reached class, just a few minutes after it had started, he was already sweaty from running. The shower had been pointless.

The professor glared at him as he scurried into the nearest desk, desperate to sit down and sink into his chair, away from the searching eyes of the students all around him. His face was flaming red. It was a bad morning, and it was only the first day. There were bruises all over his body and his quads were on fire from the morning practice. There would be two more practices throughout the day, and John wasn't entirely sure his body would survive.

And now the professor was lecturing him. "This class is important for nearly all majors, and your success here will determine your success in the future. One part of the key to success is coming to class, _on time_." Several of the students behind John snickered.

Another boy walked through the door, silencing the noise of the students. The professor looked up and sighed, "Not _now_, Holmes."

"But Professor, this is simply _bullshit_!" The boy was tall and narrow with thick black curls and pale skin. He thrust a paper forward at the professor.

The older man grumbled. "Can't you see I have a class going on? Office hours, Holmes." He tried to turn away from the persisting Holmes.

"I'm not leaving until I get an answer," Holmes said, crossing his arms. He slipped into a chair in the front row, taking the seat next to John and keeping a consistent glare directed at the professor.

The man tried to ignore the piercing grey eyes settled on his face and continued with his speech. Unfortunately for him, he faltered often under the gaze of the younger boy. John cast a glance over at the stranger sitting next to him, wondering what was going on but grateful for the distraction away from his own mishaps.

The professor began talking about the class being a rigorous course that would greatly challenge everyone. Holmes openly snorted. "What is so funny?" the professor asked, exasperated.

"Calling this class 'rigorous' must certainly be a joke," Holmes said smoothly. John turned to look at him in amazement. This boy was speaking out and calling the professor's class a joke straight to his face. "I guess for these feeble minds it might be somewhat of a challenge, but it's hardly anything of real substance. Now the work I've been doing, that's real science. Which is why I need the lab on Thursdays!"

"Get out of my classroom!"

"Give me back my lab time."

"Fine, now get out Holmes!"

"It's actually Doctor Holmes," the boy said, getting out of the seat and striding out of the room. "If you remember, I do have several degrees giving me the title."

The professor rolled his eyes once the door closed with a loud click. He shook his head. "And that, everyone, is _Doctor_ Sherlock Holmes, the most unfortunate fellow anyone could meet. Good luck to any who have the misfortune of having his name on their schedule."

John stared at the door long after the tall figure had disappeared. What a strange man. He couldn't be more than a few years older than John, yet he held several doctorate degrees. And he had arrogance to the extreme. John was fascinated. He looked down at his schedule and saw the name _Holmes, Sherlock_ listed. His throat went dry. He was fascinated, yes, but not ready to make his year miserable.


	2. Chapter 2

John passed on a shower after practice number two and headed straight to his only other class on Mondays, chemistry. With _Sherlock Holmes_. He had been anxious all practice, which did absolutely nothing to help his performance on the field. He was embarrassing himself on the field. The little freshman on the team. They were already beginning to call him Pipsqueak.

And now he was heading to Chemistry with Sherlock Holmes. Between his first class and the one he was heading to now, he had heard quite a few rumors about Doctor Holmes. No one passed his class. He was cold and lifeless. He hated everyone. He caused many students to drop out. And he was bloody brilliant, yes, despite his lack of personality. His mind was unbelievable, and he was so young, only twenty-three.

His teacher was only four years older than him and a genius. John could feel the insecurity seeping through his bloodstream. Because he had been in the presence of Sherlock Holmes, even if it was only temporary. There was an aura around him that demanded attention and respect and evoked awe.

"Oh, it's you."

John had just walked through the doorway and looked up startled. "Excuse me?"

"I'm glad I don't have to remind you to be on time. Guess Professor Levitz already covered that."

John stopped where he was and just stared. This was not how he had expected his first interaction with Doctor Holmes to go. _Oh, it's you?_ What did that mean? He furrowed his brows together in confusion.

"Don't hurt yourself thinking," Doctor Holmes chided. "You're blocking the door. Sit down already."

"What do you mean, it's me?" John asked, shifting into the nearest seat.

"I mean I remembered your face from Professor Levitz class. You were the boy who was late," Holmes said with a shrug, turning towards his blackboard and beginning to quickly scrawl chemical formulas.

John felt the heat rise to his cheeks. He was making a terrible first impression in all his classes and on the team. "Bloody first impressions," John mumbled under his breath.

Holmes let out a laugh. "Please," he said, turning around to look at John. "Stop turning red. You're being ridiculous. No one cares if you're late to Levitz's class. He's just trying to establish some dominance over his class on the first day since he lacks any in his life. He's such a pushover. And you, you care too much what others think of you. Despite what Levitz says, being a minute late to biology will not have a major impact on you. But if you are late to my class you will regret it."

"Are you always like this?" John asked, taken aback by Doctor Holmes's bluntness.

"Somewhat," he replied, his gaze losing focus. Then it quickly snapped back as he narrowed his eyes and turned away from John to address the class as a whole. "Welcome to Chemistry 101! I'm going to teach you the basics of chemistry and if your simple minds can't handle it then please leave now before you waste any more of my time."

There were faint murmurs heard behind John. "Is it true we're all going to fail?" someone called out.

Holmes shrugged. "I wouldn't say all. That rarely happens. _Most of you_ would be more precise." He glanced down at John, who saw what he assumed to be the briefest possibility of a wink. John pretended not to notice.

The class dragged on with notes and PowerPoints on different bondings and the trends on the periodic table of elements. John scribbled furiously in his notebook, making sure not to miss a word. He didn't care if most of the class failed, as long as he didn't fail. He couldn't fail. It wasn't an option.

When the class ended and everyone quickly rushed out of the room, John was stopped as he was placing his notebooks into his bag. "John, right?" It was Doctor Holmes.

"Yes, Doctor Holmes?" John said, looking up at the grey eyes focused on him.

"Call me Sherlock." He narrowed his eyes. "You're different, John."

"Different? Uh..."

Sherlock put up a hand to silence him. "Yes, different. Don't disappoint me. You can go now."

"I'll try not to." John finished shoving his books into his bag and left without looking back. But he could feel Sherlock's eyes on him as he walked away.

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	3. Chapter 3

John wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out of the shower. It felt good to finally get the sweat and mud off himself. He glanced at the clock and groaned. It was already past nine and he had yet to eat. His stomach grumbled in protest. Quickly slipping on sweatpants and a clingy t-shirt, he headed towards the cafeteria. He sourly noted how unlikely it was that he would see anyone he recognized. He had talked to a few kids today, and his roommate, but he knew Lucas had already eaten and the others likely had too.

He was surprised to see the cafeteria somewhat crowded when he entered. Quickly he grabbed a plate of pizza and headed towards the nearest empty table. He scanned the crowd for a familiar face but saw mainly groups of friends laughing and chatting, a few students slumped over textbooks, one girl snoring loudly next to her plate of pasta. He definitely needed to figure out how to manage his time.

John was biting into his pizza, grease dripping down his chin, when he heard a deep voice near him. "Mind if I sit with you?"

He glanced up. It was Doctor Holmes. John quickly wiped the grease off his face and swallowed. "Uh, sure, I guess."

Sherlock sat down in the seat across from John, who self-consciously wriggled in his seat in embarrassment. Why was his teacher sitting across from him? Did he do something wrong? "Do you normally sit with your students?" John asked without thinking.

Sherlock looked up with his piercing grey eyes. "No," he said. "I normally don't eat here at all. I was working late in the lab and lost track of time. Is my presence bothering you? I can move."

"No," John said hurriedly. "It's fine. I mean, I don't mind. It's just... unusual, isn't it?"

Sherlock sighed. "I know this is your first official day, but I'm sure you've heard rumors by now. I'd hardly consider myself typical. Besides, I don't think it's too unconventional. I'm only twenty-three. I'm much closer in age to students than the old dinosaurs they call teachers."

John shrugged. "Yeah, I guess that's true. How'd you get this job anyway?"

Sherlock laughed. "My brother. He thinks having a teaching job will keep me out of trouble. Although I'd hate to admit he's been right so far."

"Does your brother normally give jobs teaching at a college to twenty-three year olds?"

Sherlock smirked. "I'm young, but I'm still qualified, John. Likely more so than most of the old bats around here. I do have several doctorates."

"Right, of course." John took a giant bite of his pizza to shut himself up.

"You're different," Sherlock mused out loud.

John nearly choked on his pizza. "What do you mean, different?"

Sherlock shrugged and took a sip of his water bottle. "Just different," he said.

"Are you going to tell you what you mean by that?"

"No." Sherlock grinned. "You have to figure that out for yourself."

John's face was flaming red. "You're weird."

"I'm different."

"I've noticed. What do you mean, I'm different?"

Sherlock laughed. "John, relax. It's a good different. And don't stress over what others think of you. Just be happy to be you."

"What kind of good different?"

Sherlock bit his lip and looked into John's eyes. "Everything about you," he whispered. "The look in your eyes. The way you walk. The way your face flames up when you're embarrassed. The way you try to hide the bruises on your arms, the ones that are old and faded, because they're not from soccer, they're the reason you put an ocean between yourself and your home. The way you scribble down every word in your notebook and your eyes sparkle when you understand. And you understand. You absorb. You're not as dense as the average student. You're better." Sherlock sat up straighter. "You're different." He shrugged nonchalantly.

"You've just met me," John said, flabbergasted.

"I'm observant," Sherlock replied, getting up and throwing out his tray. He walked away without even a glance back, leaving John confused and staring at the retreating figure.

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	4. Chapter 4

John had spent his first week wrapped up in football (or soccer, right, why did they have to call it soccer in America?) and homework. His roommate, Lucas, who was also on the soccer team, had invited him to a party Friday night. John was tempted to go, but he had pages and pages to read and outline for chemistry and an essay due for biology. There was a test on Monday for psychology and the threat of a pop quiz still lingered in John's mind from Doctor Holmes's ominous words. Of course he wanted to go to the party. But he was afraid of anything other than an A. He had made it to this college purely on academic and athletic scholarships. He couldn't afford to slip on his grades or skills. One wrong move and he'd end up back home.

It was Friday night. Lucas was partying with pretty much everyone else in the school. And John was sitting in the library, trying to memorize the process of DNA replication. He groaned with frustration at the colorful diagrams in his textbook and the sheets of homework that surrounded him.

"You're doing it wrong, you know," a voice said from behind John. John nearly jumped out of his seat and whipped his head around.

"Oh, it's you."

Dr. Holmes smirked. "It's me. You're doing your diagram completely wrong, didn't you realize?"

"No," John said. "If I realized, I wouldn't be doing it wrong, would I?"

The taller man gave a dramatic sigh and pulled out the chair next to John. He plopped into it. John watched with wary eyes, somewhat confused.

"See? Your ligase and replicase are in the complete wrong spots," Sherlock said, pointing at John's drawing.

John sighed. "Thanks, I guess," he said, scribbling out the enzymes. His pen hovered over the page in confusion, not sure where to put them.

"Here," Sherlock said softly, pointing to a spot on the paper. "That's where the ligase goes. And the replicase goes here."

John turned towards his teacher. "Why are you here?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I was coming to read some forensics books when I saw you struggling. I thought I might help."

"I wasn't struggling."

"Your shoulders gave you away. Tense, hunched."

"Why are you helping me?"

Sherlock shrugged again. "I'm your teacher. Isn't that what teachers do?"

"Yes, maybe, if I was having problems with chemistry. This is biology. And you're Dr. Holmes. You hardly ever help anyone."

"That's true," Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. "But you're different."

"I don't understand," John protested. "Why do you keep saying I'm different? You don't even know me."

"I can read your body language well enough to know you're not average. And there's something about you that I find... _tolerable_."

"Tolerable?" John scoffed. "Well, thanks. It's late. I should probably be going. Thanks for your help, Dr. Holmes."

Sherlock shifted slightly in his chair. "Call me Sherlock, please. And John..." He shifted again, only the slightest bit so that John wasn't sure if he really had at all. "The bruises on your arms... I know what it's like. To have that happen. If you ever need anything... just let me know, okay?"

John's face flamed up as he scrambled to pick up all his books. "I don't know what you're talking about," he whispered. He reached out for his chemistry book but Sherlock stopped him, grabbing his wrist.

"I'm serious John," Sherlock told him, staring him in the eye. "You don't deserve that kind of abuse. I don't want to see you back here after break with fresh bruises. If you need anything, tell me. I want to help."

"I have to go," John said, shifting his gaze away from the stunning blue eyes boring into him. He twisted his wrist out of Sherlock's grip and added the book to his stack before shuffling away. When he got to his dorm, he dropped the stack of work on his desk and flopped onto his bed. Sherlock _knew_. He knew Sherlock had some idea when he mentioned the bruises the other day, but now John was positive he knew that the bruises hadn't been from local high school bullies. And that he would likely come back from break with more.

He stared at the ceiling above him. And Sherlock had said he knew what it was like. John was tempted to ask. His father? His mother? Both? But he had been anxious to get away from those knowing eyes. They were so perceptive. That's why he was being treated different, because Sherlock had seen the bruises. And Sherlock knew what it was like. John felt sick. He didn't want to be seen as a victim. He didn't want any special treatment. He came to America to feel normal. To get away from all of that.

That night, John tossed and turned in bed, unable to keep the brilliant grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes out of his dreams.

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	5. Chapter 5

"Damn, I hate Monday classes," Lucas complained, stuffing his books into his bag.

John shrugged. He had biology and chemistry on Mondays, and he didn't mind either. "What's so bad about Mondays?"

"Chemistry," Lucas complained. He was in a different class from John, but they both had chemistry with Doctor Holmes on the same day. "The teacher's a prick. Doesn't he realize everyone hates him?"

"He's not bad," John said with a shrug.

"Really?" Lucas sounded genuinely shocked. "Is he different in your class? Because in mine he's arrogant and cold and just so terribly boring."

"Nah, he's that way in my class too."

"How can you stand him? Jeff went for extra help the other day for the test today and Holmes told him he was 'a waste of a mind who lowered the IQ of the entire building every time he opened his mouth.'"

John stifled a laugh. "To be honest, that doesn't surprise me. He's just like that."

"Yeah, and it's awful. Were all the teachers like that in Britain or something? Is that why you have an exceptional tolerance?"

"No," John chuckled. "Teachers are pretty much the same everywhere. I don't think anyone's like She- Doctor Holmes." John thought about Lucas's words. He had a tolerance for Sherlock. Sherlock had a tolerance for John. He guessed that's why they didn't have issues. Well, that and their shared secret.

Lucas stared at John for a moment and John reddened, realizing he had almost called his professor by his first name in public. That would be strange to explain. "We're going to be late to practice," Lucas said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Hurry up, Pipsqueak."

John groaned. "Not you too. I thought we were friends."

Lucas grinned. John had to admire his friend's smile. Lucas was tall and tan, with sun-bleached hair and chocolate-brown eyes. His white teeth practically glowed against his darkened skin. He was beautiful and muscular. Sometimes John wondered why he didn't have a massive crush on his roommate. Although he was still extremely attractive. John had to occasionally remind himself not to stare. That was absolutely not how he wanted everyone to find out he was gay.

John had thought Sherlock knew he was gay. The first few times, when Sherlock told John that he was different, he could have sworn that's what the man was hinting at. John really didn't want to be outed by his chemistry teacher, either. The man was great at observing, and it was hard not to drool slightly at his thick black curls or tight satin shirts that clung to his muscular chest. Even if he was a little strange, he was certainly worth looking at. And it was true, John did tolerate him. Certainly more than the other students seemed to. He seemed to have a cold exterior and blunt, poor social skills (okay, basically non-existent social skills). But John knew there was more to him then that.

After the library incident, John had only seen Sherlock once. He had been arguing with another teacher; that much was evident.

"Just because your brother is oh-so-important does not mean you have any special rights," the teacher spat at Sherlock. She was a bitter old woman with wiry grey hair and thick-lensed spectacles.

"Never once did I mention my brother," Sherlock had replied in an eerily calm voice.

"You're a psychopath," the woman criticized, waggling a decrepit finger at the much taller figure.

"No, actually, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." Sherlock turned on his heel away from the woman to stalk away when his eyes met John's. John had unconsciously stopped and stared at the scene. Sherlock pursed his lips together and strode past, avoiding John's eyes.

John had to shake his head to get out of his thoughts. Football (soccer, whatever). He needed to focus on football. They had a game on Saturday and he was starting left bench if his performance didn't improve drastically within the next few days. And he had to get rid of that terrible nickname. Pipsqueak. It sounded pathetic. _Lionel Messi is only an inch taller,_ he tried reminding himself.

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	6. Chapter 6

There was a note scrawled in red pen at the top of his outline when it was handed back. "See me after class -SH." John glanced over the rest of the pages. There were a few corrections, but it looked fine to him. He wondered why his chemistry teacher wanted him to stay after. Hopefully he wasn't failing already. He had practice after chemistry, so it had better be a quick meeting.

Students tumbled out the door, anxious to get out of the classroom with the demanding and ruthless teacher. John waited behind, slowly packing his books as he watched the throng spill into the halls. He slung his bag over his shoulder and headed to the front of the room, where Sherlock sat at his desk, his fingers steepled in front of his chin.

"John."

"Doctor Holmes, you sa- "

"Sherlock. Call me Sherlock."

"Okay, uh, Sherlock, you said you wanted to see me after class?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, focusing his steel eyes on John's face.

"I'm not failing, am I?" John asked nervously.

"No, no, you're doing fine." Sherlock waved his hands to dismiss the comment. "I actually wanted to ask you if you would be interested in joining me on a research project. It would be quite beneficial for your medical school application."

John raised his eyebrows. "Me? Uh, a research project? I don't know. Don't you want someone older, with more education?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, I'm asking you because I want _you_ to help me with my project. Your lack of intelligence shouldn't be too much of a problem."

"Lack of intelligence. Thanks. That convinced me." John began to turn away.

"Wait... John... I didn't mean it like that. I meant, you're not like me."

"No one's like you," John replied bitterly, standing still with his body halfway turned towards the door.

"Yes, well..." Sherlock shrugged. "I've upset you."

"Maybe you don't realize, because you're a sociopath," John heard himself say, "but people generally don't like to have their intelligence criticized."

Sherlock winced slightly at the words. "John, you're not dumb. You're brilliant. It's pretty obvious to see already that you are superior to your peers. You're just not... _excessively_ bright."

John laughed, still insulted. "Excessively bright? What the hell does that mean?"

"John, I can name you two hundred and forty three different types of tobacco ash off the top of my head. I think that makes me far from average."

"No way. You're making that up."

Sherlock began rambling off a list without even blinking. John held up his hand in protest. "Alright, alright," John said. "Okay, I believe you."

"So will you work with me?"

John pondered the idea. "One more question."

"Do tell."

"Why are you picking me?"

Sherlock sighed. "It always comes back to this. Because you're different."

John bit his lip. "I... I don't want you seeing me as a victim. You don't owe me any special favors because of some bruises you may have seen."

"For starters, I _did_ see the bruises. And I'm not sympathizing for a victim. Please. Sociopath, remember? I'm picking you because you might actually be of some use to me. Or at least more so than most of the dimwits that wander these halls."

John glanced at his watch. He needed to get to practice. "Alright, I'll do it." He turned quickly to leave, not wanting to be late.

"John."

"Sherlock, I'm gonna be late for practice!"

"I just want you to know I'm not a psychopath."

John blinked. Sherlock's face was usually stoic, refusing to give anything away, but John thought he could just catch a glimpse of desperation in the grey eyes. "I know, Sherlock." He rushed out of the door as to not be late, reaching the locker room out of breath for two reasons. One, he had run through the hallways. Two, the sight of those grey eyes pleading his for some sort of understanding made his head dizzy and his legs wobbly and his lungs forget to breathe. They were stunning and beautiful and John tried desperately to remind himself that this was his _teacher_ he was thinking about but it was hard sometimes when Sherlock was only a few years older and wore tight shirts and smiled at him like that and... John punched a locker. The pain throbbed through his hand and he tried to focus on that instead of the mysterious Sherlock Holmes.

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	7. Chapter 7

Maybe he should shower before he headed to the science lab. He probably should shower. But if he showered that would mean he would be late. John weighed his options. Which would make Sherlock angrier: smelly John or late John? He guessed late John. Smelly John wasn't going to attract the bright eyes and dark curls and pale skin and bow mouth of his teacher, but he reminded himself, he wasn't supposed to try to attract his teacher. John didn't even know if Sherlock liked boys. Or people at all in that sense.

He quickly sprayed what was probably too much cologne to mask his after-practice stench and headed towards the lab. Sherlock was already inside when he opened the door and walked in. The older man didn't look up.

"Get me a scalpel," Sherlock demanded immediately.

"Hello to you too," John grumbled as he walked towards the table Sherlock was working at. "The scalpel is right next to your elbow."

"Hi, John, hand me the scalpel."

"Sherlock, it's right next to you. Move your hand two inches."

"I'm busy."

Sherlock was examining something under a microscope. He made no inclination that he would pick up the scalpel himself.

"You're being serious, aren't you?" John asked in disbelief.

"Yes. I wouldn't waste my time with jokes."

"You're impossible," John complained, handing Sherlock the scalpel that had been easily within reach.

Sherlock grunted in response as he moved over to a tray and started slicing with the instrument.

"You're welcome," John tried, but Sherlock didn't bother with thank yous. John wondered if he had ever uttered the phrase in his life.

"Your cologne is rather overpowering," Sherlock commented.

"Yes, sorry. I just came from practice."

"I assumed so, based on the glistening of sweat on your skin and the... unpleasant stench you're attempting to mask."

John sighed. "You're always like this?"

Sherlock finally looked up. "Did I upset you?"

"Well you were being quite rude," John admitted.

Sherlock bit his lip. "I didn't mean it in a rude way. I was just observing."

It killed John to recognize the sincerity in his teacher's voice. He wanted to dislike this man, just like everyone else did. But he was inexplicably attracted to him. _Lust_, he told himself. But there was something oddly charming about Sherlock's naivety.

"It's alright," John heard himself say. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock motioned him closer. "Come look."

John peered into the tray. "Is that a..." His voice trailed off.

"A brain? Yes."

"A _human_ brain?"

"Well, yes," Sherlock said as if it were the most obvious thing ever.

"You're casually experimenting on a human brain with a freshman student as your assistant?"

"Yes, John, do keep up."

"Why do I feel like this isn't something they normally let professors do?"

"Because it's not," Sherlock replied, exasperated with the questions. "Any other stupid comments you wish to make?"

"Sherlock," John warned, trying to tell him nicely that he was going too far with his remarks.

"Right, rude, sorry. This project isn't exactly approved by the school but I'm bored and I need something to _do_."

"What are you looking for?" John asked.

Sherlock raised his shoulders indifferently. "It's the brain of a cannibal. I'm just trying to find anything unusual."

"Oh," John said stupidly, because he wasn't quite sure what to say to that. "Find anything yet?"

"No, not really," Sherlock admitted. "This is getting rather boring, to be honest. Let's find something else to do."

"Uh... like what?"

Sherlock pushed the brain and microscope to the side and pulled off his rubber gloves. He hopped onto the table and sat, looking down at John with his long legs swinging off the side. "Well, John, what would you like to do?"

Various scenarios that John could never utter flashed through his mind. His palms were suddenly sweaty and his voice was caught in his throat. "I... uh... um... I should probably just go," he managed to spit out. "Game tomorrow. Should sleep and shower."

Sherlock sighed. "Rather mundane, I must admit."

"Do you have any better ideas?" John asked, trying to keep the desperate hope from seeping through his voice.

Sherlock smirked. "Yes, but you have a big game tomorrow. I wouldn't want to distract you from such an important thing."

John's face turned bright red as he tried to say a goodbye that came out as jumbled noises. He rushed to his dorm room and tried to relax his breathing, ignoring the strange looks Lucas was sending his way.

"What happened to you, man?" his roommate asked him.

John just nodded his head and headed to the shower, in desperate need to take care of the pressing demands of his body.

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	8. Chapter 8

Game day. John hated to admit it, but he got nervous before every game. He could hardly manage his breakfast. Of course, _soccer_ wasn't as big of a deal in America, but John was British. And football was an essential part of life. At home, his success on the pitch had determined the mood of his father when he got home. It was hard to pull away from the fears that a loss had ingrained into his head. Sometimes winning wasn't enough, if the ball had gotten away from John one too many times or he had missed a shot. There was an ocean between John and Mr. Watson, but it was not enough.

John didn't think it was a completely conscious decision, but after breakfast he found himself standing in front of the closed door to Sherlock's office. He contemplated knocking. Why was he here? What did he want to say? He wasn't sure. But then he remembered Sherlock _knew_; it wasn't a secret from his teacher. And Sherlock _understood_; he had been through something similar. John sucked in a breath and rapped his knuckles against the door.

"Who is it now?" a stern voice called back.

"Uh... John Watson."

The door burst open. "John," Sherlock breathed. "Don't you have a game you should be prepping for?"

"Yeah," John admitted, wringing his hands. "Could I... is that blood on your apron?"

Sherlock glanced down. He had a white apron on as well as goggles and gloves for his experiment. Crimson was splattered across the front. He shrugged. "It's old, really. A stain. You were saying?"

"Uh, yeah... I was wondering if I could come in and just... talk to you." John stared down at his sneakers.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "If it's anything about football I won't be much of a help."

"It's not," John said. "It's something more... personal."

Sherlock cocked his eyebrows and John ran his fingers down his own wrist, to convey what he wanted to talk about without having to say the words.

"Oh, right," Sherlock said. "Sure. Come in. Watch out for the flasks on my desk. They'll burn your flesh off if you aren't careful."

John carefully stepped through the room and into the hard chair seated before Sherlock's desk. Sherlock himself checked a few thermometers before easing into his big chair behind his desk.

"How can I assist you, John?" he asked, steepling his hands and looking at his pupil with sharp grey eyes.

"It's... I just need you to listen, I think. And I didn't know who else to talk to. You're the only one who knows."

"About the bruises." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yeah, about the bruises. Today's the first game of the season, and I can't fuck up. I can't. When I fuck up, he gets mad. It gets worse. The bruises get bigger."

"John," Sherlock said softly. "He's another country away. He can't reach you from here."

"But I can still hear his voice, screaming at me," John admitted. "Every time I mess up. I can feel his hands tightening on my arm and twisting. I can feel the marks he leaves behind. Fuck, I can almost see the bruises before they're even there. I thought, coming miles away, I'd feel safe. But I don't. I'm still terrified."

"John, you're shaking." Sherlock reached out and wrapped his long pale fingers around John's hand. "Relax, okay?"

John looked down at his hand enclosed in Sherlock's and thought he couldn't breathe. "Sherlock?" John pleaded, looking back at the grey eyes.

"You're here, John. You're safe here. And you're going to do amazing during your match, alright? And even if you don't, your father can't hurt you while you're here."

"He won't forget if I mess up," John whispered. "And I have to go home eventually."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, then decided against it. "You're overthinking things John. It's going to be okay. I promise."

"How can you promise? It never ends okay." John was vaguely conscious of his hand still being in Sherlock's. He shifted his hand slightly so their fingers entwined.

"I won't let it be anything but okay," Sherlock promised.

John bit his lip. Should he? No, he absolutely shouldn't. Not at all. But Sherlock looked so perfect with the goggles pushed into his messy curls and his eyes gleaming and his hand in John's and his lips so so close...

"Come to my game," John said.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, pulling his hand away from John's. "I don't know," he said.

"Please, Sherlock. Come to my game. I need you there. For moral support."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth tugged upward. "Moral support from a sociopath," he mused. "Interesting idea."

"So you'll be there?"

"Possibly. You should probably get ready now, shouldn't you?"

John glanced at his watch. "Yeah, you're right. Thanks, Sherlock. See you later, hopefully?"

"Possibly."

John left his teacher's office with a new kind of flutter in his stomach, not from nervousness from the game but from having entwined his fingers in those of Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**Reviews make a happy author!**


	9. Chapter 9

The whistle blew and John leaned forward, anxiety gripping his chest. He was starting left bench. As much nervousness he felt while playing, it was magnified when he was on the bench instead. It was one thing to be nervous while playing. Nervous while watching was even worse because there was absolutely nothing he could do to influence the outcome.

Out of the corner of his eye, John spotted a dark figure in a long dark coat sweeping towards the stands. Sherlock. Sherlock appeared to scan the field (hopefully looking for John?) before climbing the bleachers and pulling out a thick book to bury his face in. He might not be paying any attention, but Sherlock had shown up. John's heart fluttered slightly and his nerves increased.

John wanted to be on the field more than ever now. He wanted to be out there scoring goals and stopping plays by the other team and sending arching crosses to the players wide. Mostly he wanted to show off his skills, to impress Sherlock with his ball control and speed and accuracy. He was shifting nonstop on the bench, praying internally for his chance to go in and impress both his teammates and Sherlock.

A sharp whistle sliced through the air, pulling John out of his thoughts. On the field was one of his senior teammates, clutching his leg. Halfway down his shin, it took an unexpected twist. John cringed at the sight. A few athletic trainers rushed onto the field to cart away the boy on a stretcher, his face contorted in pain.

"Watson! Get your ass out there!" His coach loomed above him.

John jumped up right away and jogged out to the field, slightly stunned. It was happening. Now was his opportunity. To impress the team and Sherlock. He couldn't fuck up. He could hear his dad's voice shouting in his head. Lucas clapped him on the back as he got onto the field. "Ready, Pipsqueak?"

John gave him a slight shove and scanned the field. The scoreboard was still empty. He could score the first goal of the season. He had to. John glanced back at the bleachers and saw that Sherlock had put his book down. He was staring intently at John's figure. John shuddered slightly under the penetrating gaze.

And the game was on. John was sprinting and sliding and playing like a madman in an attempt to be successful. The adrenaline coursed through his bloodstream as he pulled the ball back or shielded the opponent or crossed to an open player. Eventually he was forcing the ball near the other team's goal quite often, just unable to get the final shot into the net. He needed the goal almost as much as one needed oxygen to breathe. John felt the rest of his life rested on the opportunity of scoring.

John made the mistake of seeing the stands out of the corner of his eye. He was so focused on the game, of dribbling down the field, of approaching the net, of slipping around defenders. And then, in his peripheral vision, he saw the tall figure watching him. John nearly tripped on his own feet and shot wide. "_Fuck_," he said, wanting to scream. He needed to focus on winning, not impressing his bloody teacher.

"What the fuck was that, man?" Lucas asked, jogging towards John. "I've seen you practice and you have a better shot than that."

"I know," John muttered, preparing for the goal kick.

"You can't choke, Pipsqueak," Lucas said before running off.

John had choked. He could feel the immense pressure of the game upon his chest. He couldn't let his team down. He couldn't let his school down. They were giving him scholarships so he could go here. If he fucked up, he would be sent back home. He couldn't afford that. He couldn't let his mistakes make their way back to the ears of his father. He had to score. And he couldn't embarrass himself in front of Sherlock. It was comforting, in a way, to have Sherlock there. To tell him that everything would be okay no matter how the game ended. But John wanted to celebrate with Sherlock after the game. He needed a win as an excuse to take him out.

The ball was sent back into play and Lucas recovered possession. John bolted down the field, weaving in and out of players, always keeping an open pathway between himself and the ball. He shouted out to his roommate. The ball sailed through the air, in front of the net, and John managed to connect his head to the flying object, changing its direction and sending it past the outstretched hands of the keeper with a _whoosh_.

It was the last thing John saw before his head collided with the goal post and knocked him unconscious.

* * *

**Not so much Sherlock in this chapter, but I promise there will be much more of him in the next one! Don't forget to review!**


	10. Chapter 10

John woke up with a massive migraine. He tried to open his eyes but his vision swam in front of him and the lights were nearly enough to blind him. He let out a groan. John heard the shuffle of footsteps beside the bed where he lay. "Where am I?" he asked the unseen figure.

"Hospital. You have a concussion."

"Sherlock?"

There was a heavy pause. "Yes."

"Why are you... never mind." John wanted to ask why his teacher was at his bedside, why Sherlock Holmes would come to visit his unconscious body and stay until he awoke. "Did we win?" he asked instead.

John could nearly hear the smirk on Sherlock's face. He didn't need to open his eyes. "Yes," Sherlock responded. "One nil. I believe they're hailing you as some sort of hero now."

John laughed even though it hurt. His skull felt as though it were being compressed when the sound shook through his body. "Well at least I was of some use."

"You stupid boy. You almost broke your skull."

"But I scored the one and only winning goal, the first goal of the season, didn't I?"

"You knocked yourself out."

"A necessary sacrifice."

Sherlock's voice got serious. "John."

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"They wouldn't let me go on the field. I tried. I needed to know you were okay. They made me wait. Don't... don't do something like that again."

John tried opening his eyes again but it was too painful. "Sherlock, why are you here?" he ventured.

"To make sure you're okay."

John's head was muddled, but it did seem slightly strange to him still. "But you could have checked in and left. Why are you here, now? Why did you wait for me to wake up?"

"I..." Sherlock began. "Because you're different." It came out as a whisper.

"You'll have to explain yourself this time."

"What do you want me to say, John? Because there's nothing I can really say without admitting to uncertainties and internal confusion that I would prefer not to face. I tend to keep all emotions to a minimum, and the ones I've been experiencing lately I don't know how to deal with. So I try to avoid them. And then you're always _there_, John, and I'm torn between trying to stay away and trying to stay as close as I can. Because you're different and magnetic and you make me _feel_ things and I'm not supposed to feel things. Holmes children don't feel anything."

"Sherlock."

"I can go now if you would like."

"Shut up, Sherlock. When I get out of this damn bed, we're going to dinner."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm asking you out, Sherlock." John wanted so desperately to see the look on his teacher's face. He forced his eyes open and saw the hints of surprise on the normally stoic demeanor.

"That's illegal."

John could feel the heat spread across his face. He squeezed his eyes shut as his migraine grew worse. In his moment of brief bravery, he had been absolutely reckless. It must be his concussion. Who in the right mind would ask out his teacher?

He tried backtracking but wasn't sure how. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean... I don't know what I'm saying. Concussed and all." It was desperate and pathetic.

There was another pause in which John could hear the rapid beating of his heart. Then Sherlock spoke.

"I have been known for breaking a few laws now and then," Sherlock mused aloud.

John forced another look to see Sherlock grinning.

"Are you... what... huh?"

"John, your concussion is showing. Get some sleep. When you're better, I'll show you the best restaurant there is around here."

John heard the footsteps fade away. He let out a sigh. He had won the game. He had scored. And he had (successfully) asked out his teacher. His _teacher_. He should be scared as hell at that, but instead he was thrilled.

* * *

**Review please :)**


	11. Chapter 11

John's head was a disaster for a week. He did nothing but lie in bed with the lights off and the shades drawn, desperate to feel better. He was missing a week of classes and a week of football. It was unbearable. To make things worse, he hadn't seen Sherlock all week since he left the hospital. His head felt as though it would burst when he tried to recall images of the man to his memory. Quite possibly the amnesia was the worst part.

It was a Monday when he finally returned to a normal schedule. Practice was hell and left his head throbbing. John threw up once he reached the locker room. Biology was equally awful as John struggled to remember the basics and focus on the ramblings of his professor. Somehow he managed to survive the day and make it to chemistry, the only part of his schedule he was actually looking forward to.

John entered the room with a smile, relieved to see the dark curls and sharp grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes once again. The man was more beautiful than he had remembered. But when Sherlock's eyes fell upon John his mouth contorted into a frown that left John's heart sinking to the bottom of his stomach.

After class Sherlock beckoned John over. "Mr. Watson, could I see you for a moment?" He waited for all the other students to leave before shutting the door to talk to John.

"What's up?"

Sherlock breathed a sigh. "We need to talk, John."

"I'm free Saturday night," John input, trying to keep the conversation positive. 'We need to talk' was hardly ever positive.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. He seemed to ponder the words before he spoke again. "First we need to talk about why you're here."

"What do you mean?"

"John, you're clearly not well. You're concussed. Why are you back in class so soon?"

John shrugged. "I'm cleared. I'm fine."

"No you're not. You reek of vomit, which I assume was brought on from your premature return to practice." John reddened self-consciously. "You hardly look functional in class and you're only damaging your brain by returning so soon. You need more time to recover."

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John insisted, although he felt anything but fine. "The doctor said so himself."

"The doctor is an imbecile who cleared you so you can go back to scoring goals for the soccer team. He cares more for the reputation of a barely-acknowledged sports team than your health. Don't go to practice."

"I have to."

"You don't. I'll call a doctor. I'll have him write you out."

"Sherlock, I _have_ to practice. I have to play. If I don't, they'll take away my scholarship money and ship me back to England."

"I don't give a damn about your scholarship money. I give a damn about your mind. Don't go to practice."

John was frustrated. "Well I'm not bloody well going back to England. I can handle it." He turned to leave (or rather, storm off).

"John." Sherlock reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "John, please. You're hurting yourself."

"No, I'm _saving_ myself. I'm saving myself from going back. Let me go." He twisted out of his teacher's grip.

He was almost through the door when Sherlock spoke again. "I can't do Saturday. Or ever."

John turned around again. "What?"

"I know I said yes, but now I'm saying no. It would be a mistake."

"Are you fucking with me? Is this because I'm going to practice?"

"No. This is because you're my student and I'm your teacher and there are laws against this sort of thing."

"I thought you broke laws."

"I do. But this is different."

"How is this different?"

"Because it's a law that's actually strongly enforced, John. It's not a law I can bypass because my brother is important and I'm intelligent."

John stared at Sherlock's face. "There's something else. What else?"

"That's all."

"No it isn't, Sherlock. What else?"

Sherlock wrung his hands together. "You won't like me once you really know me. It'll be a disaster."

John laughed. "You're being dumb."

"I'm being logical. You're smart and charming. You have a confidence in your step that demands attention and a determination that causes the most adorable little wrinkle between your brows. You have a big heart and you care too much what others think. And there's something deeper, something mysterious, that says despite the innocence you exude you have a darker, primordial side that absolutely_ fascinates_ me and drives me crazy with desire to analyze every last bit of your inner workings. But you're also so caring, and you so desperately crave appreciation. That was clear during your game. And I'm a sociopath. I won't be able to provide you with the appreciation you need. You fascinate me, John Watson, but I will bore you."

John walked back over to Sherlock. Quick, sharp steps. "Do you hear yourself talking?" he asked. "Do you not hear the words coming from your mouth?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "I'm simply stating facts."

John had another moment of reckless bravery when he stood on his toes and reached a hand to the soft skin of Sherlock's face, caressing the defined cheekbone, and pressed his aching lips to the beautiful bow shape of Sherlock's mouth. It was a quick kiss, lips closed, but the action left Sherlock stunned and speechless. "Shut up," John whispered against Sherlock's lips, his own brushing softly against them.

"J... John," Sherlock breathed back.

"You fascinate me, Sherlock Holmes. I have never met another man like you."

"I'm a sociopath."

"You're perfect," John corrected, and reached to kiss Sherlock again. This time the taller man's lips parted and John slipped his tongue inside, tasting the deliciously smoky interior of Sherlock's mouth. "I didn't know you smoked," he said when the kiss broke.

"Habits. Not important. What if I made an offer?" Sherlock's eyes were bright and desperate, his pupils dilated.

"What would that be?"

"What if you skip soccer practice and we practice this instead?"

John broke into a grin and ran a hand through his short blonde hair, noting how Sherlock so slightly licked his lips when he did so. "I can't just skip practice," John pointed out, hating to be logical.

"Mmm, what if I call that doctor to have you excused?"

"I still have to show up," John said, hating the words coming from his mouth. Only moments ago the roles had been reversed, and it had been Sherlock turning him down. "What if we continue this Saturday night?"

Sherlock bit back his smile. "Yeah. Yes, Saturday. But John, please, let me call the doctor still. Don't make your head worse."

"Sherlock, I already told you. I have to play. I can't go back."

"You're not going to lose your money. I promise."

"You can't promise that. You don't know for sure."

"I have... ways of guaranteeing it, alright? My brother is _very_ important."

"So you say."

Sherlock bent his head and kissed John passionately. "Don't argue with me," he murmured. "Please. Just trust me."

John thought his argument was compelling. "Alright," he murmured. "But now I have to go."

* * *

**So this chapter turned out to be longer than the others... Don't forget to review!**


	12. Chapter 12

He had sat through chemistry on Wednesday and Friday nearly writhing with anxiety. There he was, supposed to be learning about ideal gas laws, when all he could think about was ideal scenarios he'd like to have with Sherlock. He didn't care about the chemistry in the lectures. He cared about the chemistry that made his pulse race and his pupils dilate and his thoughts spiral out of control in the presence of Sherlock Holmes.

John packed his things slowly, making sure he was the last one in the room. He'd head towards the door but instead of leaving he'd lock it instead and rush over to Sherlock, desperate to release the tension building inside him. Desperate. Yes, John Watson was desperate for the taste of Sherlock Holmes. His fingers would tangle in the lush curls, tugging, pulling the taller man down for a deep passionate kiss that he absolutely needed to satisfy the growing ache in his core. He barely made it to practice on time both days, but it was hard to pick sitting on a bench watching everyone else over time with Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes was quickly becoming his addiction. Although, John observed, Sherlock had quite a few addictions of his own. There was his obsession with crime scenes. Articles were pinned all over a giant bulletin board behind his desk with notes scrawled on post-its. Then there were the nicotine patches sprawled across his forearm. And the pack of cigarettes he always had in his coat pocket. The coat itself - a long, sweeping charcoal coat - was an obsession.

It was Saturday night and John had already tried on several different shirts, inspected himself in the mirror, and ripped them off with frustration.

"What the hell are you doing?" Lucas asked, lounging on his bed with his laptop resting on his outstretched legs.

John glanced at his friend. How much to reveal? "Date tonight," he settled on.

Lucas laughed. "She better be fucking hot, getting you that flustered over a shirt."

John smirked. "My date is pretty hot."

Lucas hopped off his mattress and started rustling through John's drawers. "Try this one," he said, pulling out a grey-and-white striped long sleeve. John pulled it on, noting how it clung to his skin. Lucas stepped back and inspected him.

"Well, it's better than all your baggy jumpers," he decided. "At least she'll be able to see you're fit."

John grinned in the mirror. It was true, the shirt really defined the athletic build he had beneath. "Thanks, mate."

Lucas laughed. "Get some tonight, Pipsqueak."

* * *

John was the first to arrive at the restaurant. The moment he walked in he felt uncomfortably underdressed in his jeans and converse. He sat nervously at a dimly lit table with a candle glowing faintly in the middle. The waiter arrived with a menu and looked at him suspiciously.

"I... ah... I'm waiting for a friend," John blurted, feeling self-conscious under the waiter's gaze.

John glanced at his watch at least once every minute, waiting anxiously for Sherlock to show up. What if he never did? What if he changed his mind again? What if John was just a quick make-out after class and Sherlock didn't want to go on an actual date with him?

John hadn't realized how anxious he really was until he saw Sherlock approaching, the long coat sweeping around him, his curls tussled from the wind outside. "Sorry," his deep voice rumbled. "I was experimenting. I lost track of time."

John tried to say "it's okay" but his voice caught in his throat when Sherlock pulled off his coat, revealing a tight purple silk shirt clinging to his chest. The shirt was a little small but John didn't mind. It fed his imagination. With a sting he noted that Sherlock was appropriately dressed for the restaurant. He was always impeccable, even when teaching.

The waiter came back and started at the sight of Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes!" he exclaimed. "Good to see you again. I'll fetch Nigel."

"That won't be necessary," Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively. "We'd like to see menus, please. John, would you like any wine?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," John managed. He didn't think he was of legal drinking age in the states, but it wasn't a thought that passed through his mind until the waiter had already scurried off.

John opened a menu and glanced at the prices. _Holy shit_. There was no way he'd be able to afford any of the options. He glanced nervously at Sherlock over the top of his menu. Maybe he could pretend to feel ill and say he wasn't up for eating. Sherlock would probably know he was lying though.

The sharp blue eyes were on him. "Don't worry about prices," Sherlock said casually. "Nigel will insist whatever we order is on the house." At John's raised eyebrows, he added: "I helped him find out he was being swindled out of thousands of dollars once."

"Oh," John replied, because he wasn't sure what to say. Sherlock smirked ever so slightly over his menu.

"Sherlock," John started. "We won't... get in trouble here, will we? Us being together?"

Sherlock pondered the idea. "Maybe. If you see anyone you recognize start asking questions about chemistry. We'll say I'm tutoring you."

"At dinner? _Here?_"

"They already think I'm strange. I don't think the location will really change their judgment of me."

John laughed, although part of him ached that he couldn't hold Sherlock's hand across the table or kiss him on the forehead when he said silly things or give any sign that anything between them was more than platonic. _This is what you got yourself into_, he chided himself. _He's your bloody teacher. You should have known._

A heavy man in expensive clothing approached the table. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed, grabbing Sherlock's face between two meaty hands. "Good to see you!" He looked towards John. "I see you've brought another. Ah, who's this one? Haven't seen him before."

This one? John's face reddened slightly. "I'm John," he answered, shaking the man (presumably Nigel)'s hand.

Nigel looked him up and down. "Scrawny fellow. Bring him more often, hmm? Put some weight on those bones." He turned back towards Sherlock. "Anything you want, on the house! Only the best for you, my friend."

"Thank you," Sherlock said passively, unaffected by the man's enthusiasm. There was a crash in the background and Nigel hurried off.

Should he say something or not? Screw it, he would. Better to find out now then get any more involved. "This one?" John questioned.

Sherlock scanned his face with his knowing blue eyes. "You're upset. Why are you upset?"

"Am I just another? Pick of the week? Because... I don't think I'm comfortable with that."

"What are you talking about?"

"Nigel. Isn't that what he suggested? That I'm just one of the many you bring here?"

"Well, yes. That's what he meant."

John stood up. "I think this was a mistake. I... I'm sorry. I've got to go."

Sherlock scrunched up his eyebrows. "John, sit down. You're being ridiculous."

"No, ridiculous is all those things you said to me last night that I bet you say to all of us."

John could feel his heart breaking. He had taken a risk and jumped headfirst into the uncontrollable feelings coursing through his veins. Now he was regretting it. He wasn't special. He was just another body to Sherlock. And maybe it wouldn't have hurt so bad, if yesterday, after a particularly passionate make-out, Sherlock hadn't whispered in John's ear.

"John," he had said in his deep baritone voice. "I've never been addicted to a person before. I've never felt anything for another person, really. But with you... it's a high that the drugs have never given me before."

John had smiled and kissed Sherlock's forehead, wrapping his arms around the taller boy's torso and holding him tight, wanting to stay in his arms forever. Now John was desperate to get away.

"John, what are you talking about?" Sherlock asked now.

"I don't want to be just another make-out."

Sherlock's forehead wrinkled. "Well of course you're not. Why would you ever think that?"

"Because Nigel said I'm just another person you bring here to dinner."

"Yes."

"Then bloody hell, I am just another!"

"No."

"_Elaborate, Sherlock._"

"He's referencing the clients I bring here." Sherlock shrugged. "People come to me for advice and such. Sort of a consulting detective."

John's heartbeat slowed down. "Consulting detective?" he asked, climbing back into the seat.

"Yes. Police can be so ineffective. I help solve the interesting stuff that the cops are too dull to understand. It's a hobby."

"So you weren't... bringing other dates here?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I don't date. Well, I don't date anyone that isn't you."

John's face burned. "So we're on a real date?"

Sherlock rolled his blue eyes. "That's what you asked for, isn't it?"

"Sorry," John mumbled, staring down at his lap and feeling embarrassment seep through his blood.

"There's nothing to be sorry about. Ah, look, the wine."

* * *

**So yeah, sorry I haven't been updating as often but life got in the way. I hope you enjoy and don't forget to review! Date Night Part 2 coming up soon :)**


	13. Chapter 13

John refused to drink any wine at first until Sherlock pointed out that the more serious law he was breaking was dating his teacher, and really, Nigel wouldn't dare question the age of Sherlock's date. John gave in and realized how unbelievably _expensive _the wine tasted. He was used to settling for cheap beers.

John wasn't sure what to say after his outburst. He felt slightly uncomfortable under Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock, who wasn't always noticing of human reactions, picked up on the discomfort.

"Really, it's fine, John," he insisted. "I can understand how you would make that assumption."

John feigned a smile. "I didn't mean to make a scene."

"You say that as if I'd care what any of these idiots think about me. I don't. I only care what you think about me."

John took a gulp of the wine. "Have you done this before?"

"Dated? Once."

"I meant have you dated a student before." John was surprised to hear Sherlock had only dated once before.

"Never. I don't typically date, and I'm rather new at teaching."

"Then how do we go about this?"

Sherlock pursed his lips together. "I guess... we'll keep it a secret. At least for now."

John laughed. "Well yes, I understood that much. But how do we maintain a relationship when we're always locking classroom doors and pretending to talk about chemistry in dimly lit restaurants?"

Sherlock shrugged. "People are generally stupid. They won't take notice."

"Alright." John let it go, but he still harbored some uncertainties.

The food arrived, arranged prettily upon deep red plates. John had ordered a steak, while Sherlock had settled for his 'usual,' a salad topped with grilled chicken. Looking at his thin frame, John doubted Sherlock ever ate much.

"So, are you working on any cases now?" John asked between bites of tender steak. The food was expensive, but it was also _good_. Better than anything he'd ever imagine tasting. Sherlock, however, was merely running his fork through the salad without actually eating it. At least he was drinking the wine, which John had a few glasses of for himself.

Sherlock's eyes lit up at the question. "Yes. There's been three murders. The police think they're just suicides, but they're murders. I just need to find the common link."

"That sounds interesting," John commented.

"Really?"

John laughed. It was interesting that Sherlock was consulted by the police to solve their toughest crimes. It was even more interesting to see the sparks in his eyes when asked about a case or the way his lips turned up at the corners and he started talking faster with excitement. "Yeah, Sherlock, it's really interesting."

Sherlock sat across from him with a big goofy grin that reminded John why he had found the man so initially intriguing. "I have an idea. Let's go." He stood up quickly, pulling on the big sweeping coat and wrapping his blue scarf around the long alabaster neck.

"I... but... I haven't finished eating yet!"

"You'll live, John," Sherlock insisted.

John crossed his arms. "I thought we were eating dinner."

"We are. We did. Now we're going to do something fun."

"But..."

Sherlock grabbed John's hand, entwining their fingers together and consequently increasing the speed of John's heartbeat. "John," he pleaded in his deep voice that resonated throughout the blonde boy's body.

John's resistance melted. "Alright. Where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Hurry up."

"Excuse me?"

"While we were waiting for the food I received a text that there was another body. Let's go check it out."

"I don't know, Sherlock..." John started. "I'm not sure being around a group of cops with your semi-drunk student is the best idea."

Sherlock sat down with a thud and a pout on his face. "Fine. You're probably right." He downed another glass of wine.

It wasn't long before John had passed the semi-drunk phase onto completely intoxicated. Sherlock wasn't much better, although he seemed to have a greater resistance and it had taken him a few more glasses than John.

"Johnnnn, let's go see the crime scene!" Sherlock slurred.

John laughed. "Is that your idea of an ideal date?"

"Yes."

John laughed harder as Sherlock, swaying slightly, stood up and pulled at John, guiding him out the door. Outside the air was crisp and the sky dark. They piled into the first cab they could hail and Sherlock gave directions to the driver, insisting speed was important as they were going to solve a murder.

"Whatever, dude. Just don't throw up in my cab."

Sherlock rambled on about his murderer theories, one of which blamed his brother for all the apparent suicides. John doubted this one was likely but it appeared to be the answer Sherlock wanted most. They stumbled out of the cab in front of an apartment surrounded by police cars with flashing lights, the area taped off.

"Sherlock!" a man called, walking swiftly over. His hair was silver but his face was handsome still.

"George," Sherlock huffed in reply.

"_Greg_," the silver-haired man corrected. "Who's this?" He pointed at John.

"Not important," Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively and nearly falling over. Greg had caught him. "He's with me. That's all that matters."

"Sherlock, have you been drinking?"

"So what if I had?" he slurred. "Are you going to tell my big brother?"

"Shit, Sherlock, what the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking the wine tasted pretty good."

"It's just a drink, mate," John cut in. "He's not driving. He's not underage. He's not succumbing to alcohol poisoning. He's fine."

"Sherlock, who the fuck is this? I'm calling Mycroft." Greg pulled out his cell phone.

"No!" Sherlock insisted, fumbling for the phone. "Don't call Mycroft! He can't know!"

"He needs to know if you're falling off the wagon, Sherlock!"

Sherlock bit his lip and looked at John. "That's not what I'm talking about."

Greg followed his gaze. "Oh? _Oh_. Shit, Sherlock, who the fuck is this kid?"

Sherlock scuffed his shoe on the ground. He didn't look up when he told Greg: "He's my boyfriend. Geoff, you can't tell Mycroft."

"It's _Greg,_ and alright, don't worry. I remember what happened to the last one. Here, let me give you a ride home."

"But I want to see the body," Sherlock whined.

"You're no use to me like this," Greg insisted. He opened the door of a police car. "Sherlock, get in the fucking car."

John and Sherlock scrambled into the back as Greg talked to a woman named Sally, telling her he had to run a quick errand. John could feel her glaring at them through the window.

"Alright," Greg said, starting the engine. "Where am I dropping off the kid?"

John glanced at Sherlock. Even in his inebriated state, he knew Greg couldn't drop him off at the dorms. It would raise too many questions. Like why a boy living in freshman dorms was drunk, or why Sherlock's boyfriend was a freshman at the school he worked at.

Sherlock settled a hand over John's. "He's coming to Baker Street with me," Sherlock commanded.

Greg gave them a look through the rear-view mirror but didn't protest.

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	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock and John stumbled out of the car and Sherlock dragged John up the steps to the door of 221B Baker Street. "We still have to talk about this later!" Greg shouted at them, but Sherlock quickly slipped his key in the lock and shut the door, cutting off the policeman's words.

"Sorry you couldn't examine the body," John hiccuped. "I guess we drank too much."

Sherlock narrowed his steel-grey eyes. "There's another body I'd like to examine," he replied, tugging John upstairs and guiding him to a bedroom.

The room was clustered with newspapers and full of pictures and maps pinned to the walls. Sherlock quickly shoved everything off the bed and gently pressed John back, until he was falling onto the mattress with Sherlock on top of him. Sherlock's kisses were passionate and hungry, but definitely sloppy, although John was drunk as well and hardly noticed anything more than the wonderful sensations vibrating through his body.

Sherlock's lips moved from John's to trace his jawline while his hands were desperately unbuttoning his shirt. John moved his own hands to help, watching the silk fall away to reveal smooth, pale skin that glowed faintly in the dark like moonlight. John let out a slight whimper as Sherlock's lips brushed against his neck and began sucking. He was too intoxicated and caught in the waves of pleasure to realize he'd have a noticeable hickey the next day.

"Sherlock," John moaned, tangling the fingers of his left hand in Sherlock's thick curls. His right hand began stroking the soft skin revealed from the removal of the shirt. John traced the contours of muscles, relishing the heat that rose from Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock lifted John's shirt above his head and began moving his lips lower down John's body, leaving a trail leading directly above the zipper of his jeans. Sherlock glanced up briefly with a glint in his eyes before tugging on John's zipper.

"Sherlock," John said again, this time in a different voice. Sherlock stopped and looked up as John shifted beneath him, sitting up. "I... ah..."

He could feel himself straining against his jeans, wishing to be freed from his pants, but... he wasn't ready. Kissing was one thing. Going further, with his _teacher_, so soon... that was another. And being with a man was something rather new to John. He had received quite a number of handjobs in high school, and even a blowjob once, but mainly from girls. If it had ever been revealed that he was gay, his father would likely beat him within inches of his life. John had only physically been with one other male before Sherlock.

"Sherlock," his voice cracked, "I'm not ready."

Sherlock sat up abruptly, scanning John's face with his sharp grey eyes. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked after a moment, cocking his head to the side.

John bit his lip. "No, you were great, I just... I've never really... been with a guy before." He could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks.

"Ah." Sherlock sat back on his haunches, staring at John.

John squirmed under the gaze and nearly felt like crying. He quickly pulled his shirt back on and pulled his legs up, curling into a ball. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Sherlock moved forward and John cringed, expecting an abusive hand. Instead, Sherlock lightly kissed his forehead. "You have nothing to be sorry for," his deep voice rumbled in John's ear. "Don't ever feel pressured into something you're not ready for. I'll wait for you, as long as you need."

It was then that John could no longer hold back tears. Here he was in bed with a brilliant man, who accepted him the way he was. After years of living in an abusive home and dealing with controlling and demanding girlfriends, it felt so _good_ to be there, where he actually felt _safe_. Safe was a feeling he hadn't known in such a long time. And Sherlock was willing to wait for him.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and cradled his head against his bare chest. John's tears fell hot against the exposed skin, but Sherlock just pressed his lips against John's forehead and whispered, "It's alright. You're okay, John. I don't mind waiting."

John sobbed into Sherlock's chest, breathing in his scent for comfort. He felt stupid, crying in Sherlock's arms after their first official date. It was embarrassing. But Sherlock just held him and whispered support and stroked his blonde hair until he calmed down. When John finally composed himself, he pulled away from Sherlock's embrace and sat up, rubbing his sore eyes.

Sherlock grinned at him. "Even with puffy eyes, you're still beautiful," he whispered, and softly kissed John. John smiled into the kiss.

For a while they sat up, Sherlock rambling about the crime scene, but eventually the alcohol eased them into a deep sleep. In the morning, John woke with Sherlock pressed against his back and a pale arm around him as the older man breathed softly into his ear. It was tranquil and almost enough to ease the hangover John could feel pulsing in his head.

Sherlock stirred behind him. "Coffee?" he whispered lazily.

"Please," John replied, touching his forehead.

Sherlock pulled himself out of bed and strolled to the door. "Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted out, making John wince.

"Sherlock, what the fuck?"

"My landlady," Sherlock replied without turning around. "Mrs. Hudson!"

A petite elderly woman came bustling up the steps. "Sherlock, dear, what is it?"

"Coffee, please. Black, two sugars. John?" He shifted his tall frame so John was visible in the bed.

Mrs. Hudson peered in and made a face of surprise. "Oh? Who's this one? You didn't tell me we had guests! I'm not proper!"

"You're fine," Sherlock insisted, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder to keep her from running off. "How do you want your coffee, John?"

"Uh..." He was surprised by the woman looking at him in bed. He had assumed Sherlock lived alone. "With some milk, please."

"Alright dears, but just this once. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper, Sherlock," she chided, before scurrying away and adding on, "and I'll bring up some biscuits!"

John stared at Sherlock, who was stalking back to bed. He flopped down and pulled John against his chest.

"Is it okay that she knows?" John asked.

"Mrs. Hudson is the most brilliant woman I know. She'll keep our secret," he assured John, casually stroking his arm.

John thought about who knew about the secret relationship. Nigel, the restaurant owner. Greg, the cop. Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock had said something to Greg though, last night. _Don't tell Mycroft._ Greg had referenced something about 'the last one.' John bit his lip.

"Sherlock," he began cautiously. "Who's Mycroft?"

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**Reviews greatly appreciated!**


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock sighed and sat up. "Must you ruin the moment?" he asked.

John's cheeks flared as he stuttered out "I didn't... I was... It was..."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "He's my nosey, no-good brother, if you must know."

"It's just... why can't he know? About us?"

"Because he'd try to get involved."

John thought back to Greg's words again. _The last one._ "Sherlock? What did Greg mean about the last one?"

"Hmm? Greg? Oh, Lestrade. Well. Again, John, ruining the moment."

"It sounded rather ominous."

"It's not a concern," Sherlock insisted. "As long as Mycroft doesn't find out, everything will be fine."

John let out a sharp laugh. "Yeah. As long as Mycroft, or the school, or the cops, or anyone who might say anything doesn't find out, we're good."

Sherlock smirked. "Stop being so bitter," he said, drawing John into a deep kiss. "Better?"

"Getting there," John murmured, tangling his fingers in dark curls and kissing Sherlock back.

Mrs. Hudson had the misfortune of walking in on a frenzied make out session. John, feeling insecure, pulled back and immediately turned crimson, but Sherlock simply moved his mouth to his boyfriend's neck instead, sucking on the mark he had left from the night before.

"Coffee," Mrs. Hudson announced after clearing her throat. She placed the tray with the cups and biscuits on the nearby dresser and scurried off.

John had to roughly push Sherlock off to insist they obtain the tray. "My head, Sherlock," he protested, anxious to get rid of the pounding sensation.

John sighed at the warmth wrapped in his hands. He sat back on the bed with a content sigh before reality crashed upon him. He was in Sherlock's bedroom. Sitting on Sherlock's bed. Where he had fallen asleep in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock. His teacher. Of course, they still hadn't done anything more than kissing. Yet.

John's face heated at the thought. He could still taste Sherlock on his lips, feel the smooth white torso beneath his fingertips. He remembered the ache that had started growing in his groin, and immediately changed his thoughts to prevent the need from returning. It was something he was constantly fighting, even in chemistry class, where Sherlock's voice was simply enough to give him problems.

"John," Sherlock said roughly, snapping John out of his wandering thoughts.

"Huh?"

"I said, what time do you have to be back for practice?"

John straightened abruptly. "Oh, _fuck_," he said. "What time is it?"

"Eight."

"Fuck," John repeated. "Practice is at ten. I'm gonna be late. Where's the bathroom?"

Sherlock pointed to a door and John went through, shutting the door behind him and letting out a deep sigh. How had he ended up here, when only months ago he had been in another country miserable and alone? John checked his reflection in the mirror. His blonde hair was tousled from Sherlock's fingers and there was an obvious hickey on his neck. He ran his fingers over it lightly, wondering how he would be able to hide it. But there was something different about his reflection, besides the obvious signs from the night before. There was a glint in his dark blue eyes. A gleam of happiness that he hadn't seen in years.

"Sherlock," John complained, emerging from the bathroom. "How am I supposed to hide this?" He motioned towards the mark on his neck.

Sherlock smirked at John before letting out a laugh. "Leave it," he insisted. "I want everyone to see it, to know you were with someone last night."

John could feel himself blush at Sherlock's possessiveness. "They're going to ask questions," John warned.

"Let them wonder." Sherlock stood up and approached John, cupping the shorter man's face in his hands. "Don't worry so much, John."

John nuzzled slightly against the hand. "I'm nervous. I've never done anything like this before."

"Like this?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I... I've never dated a man. Or a teacher. It's certainly different."

"Oh." Sherlock furrowed his face.

"It's a good different," John insisted. "It's just not something I can openly publicize though, y'know?"

Something flickered across Sherlock's face. John thought it looked like... uncertainty? Sherlock hardly seemed like someone to be uncertain.

"I assumed you were openly gay," Sherlock admitted.

"I'm not."

Sherlock sucked in a breath before asking, "Are you really gay? Or interested in me?"

"I... Sher... how could you ask that?" John stuttered out in surprise.

Sherlock straightened his stance and blanked his face. "It's a fair question, John," he said, pulling all emotion out of his voice and sounding nearly robotic. "Everyone knows I'm a tough teacher. And my class is essential to most majors. You wouldn't be the first student to attempt to use sexual favors to improve your grade."

John clenched his jaw. "Is that really what you think of me? Because I thought... I thought I was here because I felt a strong magnetism towards you that I thought you might reciprocate. But if I'm wrong, please correct me, so I can stop wasting my time."

"John..."

"No. Just, just shut up right now, Sherlock. I like you. A whole lot. That's why I'm standing _here, right now, in your bedroom_. Am I just another student to take advantage of to you?"

"John," Sherlock whispered. "I've never had any relationship with a student. Ever. I don't have relationships in general. Just you. I mean, there were others, in the past. Not students though. And none of them matter now. Barely any of them mattered _then._ The only one I care about is you."

John wasn't entirely sure what to say, realizing they had both likely overreacted (embarrassingly so). But he didn't need to say anything, because his mouth was preoccupied as Sherlock's pressed against it, drawing him into a sweet kiss that took away any doubts he could possibly have.

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**So John and Sherlock had their first argument as their own personal insecurities got to them. I know I didn't really answer anything in this chapter (like about the other one) but I promise that's coming up soon! Review please!**


	16. Chapter 16

"Crime scene?" Sherlock asked after breakfast, his eyes lighting up. John didn't have the heart to say no.

When they arrived, Greg was waiting for them. He still gave John a wary eye that made John nervous about what Greg might assume, but he had a generally kind demeanor.

"Good to see you sober," Greg said pointedly to Sherlock.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

"You're not getting out of this completely, Sherlock," Greg insisted. "We're still talking about this later."

"About what?" John asked nervously, thinking Greg was referencing the relationship.

What followed was an intense moment of staring between Greg and Sherlock. John could feel the tension oozing between the two. Apparently Greg risked the threat of the piercing grey eyes because he said, "If he's your boyfriend you should fucking tell him!"

"Tell me _what_," John demanded.

Sherlock cast daggers at Greg before letting out a sigh. "Lestrade thinks it is pertinent to tell you about my drug habits."

"Addictions," Lestrade cut in.

"Yes, so it's called. He disproves of my drinking last night and judging by the way he's been looking at you he thinks you may be another drug dealer or someone I'm fucking for drugs. However, Gary, I ensure you neither are true."

"_Greg,_" Lestrade corrected. He glanced at John. "Sorry, kid, just looking out for a friend."

John's face was flaming with embarrassment at Lestrade's assumptions. "So what kind of addictions?" he ventured.

Sherlock grimaced. "I find cocaine helps to stimulate the mind," he admitted. "And morphine does have its advantages."

John bit his lip. "And alcohol?"

"He doesn't normally drink, but when he does, he tends to get carried away," Lestrade interjected. "And it's normally a sign of him going downhill."

Sherlock made a disapproving sound. "I am hardly going 'downhill' right now. I was simply on a date. People _do_ drink on dates I believe?"

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. "Well, yes, but it's so hard to tell sometimes with you..."

Sherlock pulled up his sleeve. "Look. Two patches. I'm fine."

Lestrade and John looked at the nicotine patches stuck to the porcelain skin. It appeared to be enough to calm Lestrade's fears. "Alright. Crime scene time?"

Greg stepped beneath the yellow police tape, followed closely by Sherlock and then John. Lestrade held up a hand before John could go any further.

"Hold on, kid, you can't come."

John blinked and looked up at Sherlock for guidance.

"I need him," Sherlock insisted, grabbing John's hand and tugging him along. "Hurry up, John."

"Sherlock, you can't just bring your boyfriend to a crime scene! It's not allowed! Hell, you're not even allowed and it's risky enough letting you on."

Sherlock stopped to face Lestrade with a dead stare. "He comes along with me, or I refuse to help. And we all know you need my help. So many bodies already and no killer caught. Really, people rely on you guys to keep them safe?"

Lestrade wrinkled his nose. "You know, you're a real asshole."

"Yes, I believe I've heard that one before," Sherlock replied, dragging John into the house crawling with uniformed officers.

John was jostled through a crowd of forensics workers, dusting and snapping photos. Lestrade followed behind, verbally guiding Sherlock through the maze of rooms and people. Eventually they reached a room with blood-stained carpet and smashed objects scattered about.

Sherlock stopped abruptly. "Where's the body?"

"The morgue."

"What? Why did you move it before I could see?"

"We couldn't just let a body decay because you were drunk," Lestrade said, exasperated.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disdain.

"Your fault, mate. Maybe next time you should keep away from the alcohol."

"Shut up," he grumbled.

Sherlock got to work milling about the room and rambling off scientific facts while simultaneously calling the entire police force stupid. John was intrigued to see him in this environment. He was arrogant and rude and undeniably _impressive_. His attention to detail was fascinating. It seemed as though Sherlock Holmes saw all the little signs invisible to the normal eye. And the energy surrounding him, brightening his features, making him smile madly... It was all rather seductive to John.

"John," Sherlock called, breaking John out of his reverence.

"Yeah?"

"It's time to see the body." He began striding out of the building, expecting John to follow.

John didn't follow right away because he was stopped by Lestrade.

"If you're another one of his trashy drug dealers I swear to God I will drag you to jail myself and ensure you never see the light of day again," Lestrade murmured in John's ear.

John paled immediately. "I... I'm not a drug dealer. I don't use drugs. I didn't even know Sherlock was a drug addict."

Lestrade scanned the fear in John's face before relaxing his hardened gaze. "Sorry. Yeah, you really don't seem like one. It's just... Sherlock's been through a lot. And despite what he thinks, someone's gotta look out for him. If you notice any strange... changes in his behavior, let me know, yeah?"

John let out a chuckle. "Sherlock's _always_ strange," he admitted. "But yeah, I know what you mean. I'll look out for him, mate."

Lestrade smiled in return before narrowing his eyes again. "How did you two meet?"

John froze immediately, feeling all his blood rush out of his body. He was paralyzed with fear. Did Greg know?

Sherlock popped back in the doorway. "I thought you were following," he said gruffly before noticing John's face. "What's wrong? Lestrade, what did you say to him?"

Lestrade looked surprised. "Nothing. I just asked how you two met."

Sherlock crossed his arms and glared at the silver-haired man. "That's none of your business."

"Christ, Sherlock, it's a basic question. No harm to it."

John exchanged a glance with Sherlock, who seemed more annoyed than afraid. The curly-haired man let out a sigh. "I'd rather keep details to a minimum, in case Mycroft drugs you into spilling any details."

It was Lestrade's turn to look annoyed now. "You don't have to be a paranoid douche, you know. Some people actually do call you a friend although you claim to have none. I ask about you because I care about you Sherlock, though only God knows why. And after Vi-"

"Don't." Sherlock cut off the other man sharply.

"I-"

"Don't say anything more."

"You know what happened. You know what went wrong. I'm just trying to watch out for you this time, so it doesn't happen again."

Sherlock roughly clasped John's hand and pulled him along. "We're leaving."

John cast a sympathetic glance back at Lestrade, looking exasperated and concerned. He could tell the cop only wanted to look out for Sherlock's best interest and protect him. But his words had triggered an unknown anger in Sherlock. John was tempted to ask, but decided against it. He'd have to wait for his boyfriend to calm down and find the right time to discuss a subject that made him so volatile.

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**Sorry for such a delay! Lots of end-of-school year and work stuff going on right now but it should get better soon! Review please!**


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